Child's Play 666 remastered
by Valkyrie4
Summary: Follows Seed of Chucky. This story is already up under the same name, but I decided to re-master it with vastly improved writing and possibly a slight change in the story. But yes: Chucky is revived, and instantly seeks revenge against Tiff.
1. ReAnimation

(A/N: (**PLEASE READ FIRST**) Right then! It's been YEARS since I wrote a fanfic, and I wanted to get back into it so I thought I'd ease myself into it by re-mastering my favourite of all my fanfics and give it an ending it deserved. The story, for the most part, will remain the same but I will be adding little bits and flourishes and, obviously, better writing. I understand that this chapter is incredibly long, and I'm hoping the others won't be as long as this one. I won't delete the other story but PLEASE keep in mind that it's been five years since I finished that and my writing ability has improved exponentially. Hope you enjoy!)

_Dangerous. This road is dangerous, _is all the driver of a beaten-up old Datsun could think of as he clutched his steering wheel as though it would save him should one of the ridiculously over-sized juggernauts roaring past him decide to change lanes a little too soon. The car shook from side to side and every piece of cheap plastic in the car buzzed; the wheels of the truck, which seemed as big as the small car, spitting tiny fragments of tarmac against the windows and door panels, whirred savagely merely two feet from the window. The car struggled to keep up with the demands put upon it by the accelerator; it revved loudly and spewed noxious gases from its exhaust as he turned off the exit ramp. He was late for a meeting with a seller, and Francis knew he wouldn't wait for him.

Trudging as quickly as the crappy little car would let him through the city streets he pulled up outside a small café, the brakes of his car squealing noisily. He got out and ran into the coffee bar and up to the counter. The short, round waitress behind the counter turned to him and forced a half-smile.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was rough, suffering the cost of twenty years of yelling at her kids. The chain-smoking didn't make things better, either.

Francis caught his breath, still reeling from the terror on the highway: "Has a guy been in here? Tall, shabby, dark hair…?"

"Scar on his face?"

"Yeah, that's him!" Francis exclaimed excitedly.

"Sorry, he left about fifteen minutes ago."

Francis' world sank. This was – would have been – a big investment for him. An original Good Guy builder's set! Still in its box! He was offering to pay big money for it and that grubby son of a bitch walked away. Should he have bought the set, Francis would be one item away from having the _entire _Good Guy range – the remaining toy being, of course, an original Good Guy doll; the talking one that interacted with your kid. He swore under his breath and left the café.

Slamming shut the rickety door he tried the ignition; the car spluttered and choked before it died completely. The journey from his home in the suburbs outside the city to the city itself was too much for the aged machine; it had driven its last mile. Guessing he'd have to walk he sighed, getting out and swinging the car door shut, which caused the wing-mirror to fall off and clatter to the ground. It really wasn't his day.

Sirens wailed in the distance, getting nearer until a legion of squad cars screamed past Francis as he turned down a back street, walking briskly towards the nearest telephone. He hummed to himself and kicked a can down the alley, his hands deep in his pockets and his mind deeper in thought; so deep, in fact, that he didn't notice he was walking behind the city hospital, let alone notice the orange tuft of hair sticking out from one of the dumpsters behind it. He blinked and moved closer to the chain-link fence that divided him from the dumpster. Scanning the entirety of the surface trash, he noticed something else: a piece of cloth that could only belong to one thing.

A…Good Guy?

He had barely processed the thought before he had tossed his jacket over the razor wire at the top of the fence and found himself halfway over, his pulse racing. They'd stopped making Good Guys in the wake of the Charles Lee Ray and Tiffany murders and, if this thing sticking out of the dumpster really _was_ a Good Guy, it would be the first time for him to see one outside of the TV or a magazine; they didn't even produce more dolls than was needed to make the much-protested-against movie, which was still in production, in case something—like Ray and Tiffany returning from the grave—should happen.

Francis never believed that voodoo crap, few people did, but it made for an interesting story and a Good Guy, should one be found, would fetch thousands in cold hard cash. Not that he'd sell it, of course.

Searing pain shot through his left leg as he caught it on the razor wire, a result of his careless excitement. Material and flesh tore as he dragged his leg over, but he didn't care; he could bare the pain, all he needed to do was get a bandage and some anti-septic cream, this Good Guy couldn't wait, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and he could not pass it up because of a few deep wounds. He fell eight feet to the ground and, although fighting for breath, managed to scramble to his feet, his trouser leg torn and bloody. Swearing each time he put weight on his injured leg he limped to the dumpster, grasped the orange tuft, and yanked out the head of a Good Guy doll.

It was a mess. The facial mechanisms had malfunctioned – the doll's face was contorted in some horrible half-scream-half-grin – but that was easily fixed; what wouldn't be so easy to rectify was the stitching and staples that riddled it. Francis reached for the piece of trademark cloth, an arm, covered in what looked like blood. He grinned half-heartedly, as happy as he was to finally find a Good Guy, there was still the matter of finding the body and remaining limbs.

After half an hour of digging through decomposing rubbish, the desperate man finally found the torso and missing limbs he'd been looking for; each piece had the same bloodlike stains as the arm. Now reeking of trash and god-knows-what else, Francis was satisfied with himself. He'd finally managed to get a Good Guy doll, albeit in pieces, but repairing it wouldn't be a problem for one of the best toy restorers around.

He grinned excitedly and, finding an empty plastic bag, stuffed the dismembered doll into it before climbing the fence once more, this time tearing his shirt. He landed in the alley, swearing, and started his long trek home.

It was several hours before Francis got back to his run-down apartment in the quiet, yet crime-filled, suburban neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city and it was months before he could even begin thinking about restoring the doll he'd found. Money was scarce recently, people just didn't seem to want toys restored, and so he didn't have the right materials to do the best possible job. Not yet anyway. For months he scraped together every penny he could muster, which he attained through favours owed to him, donations by friends, and the odd occasion where he was called to repair a collector's newest treasure. Nothing was more important to him than getting this doll back to its original state, and when he'd reattached the arms and legs, having repaired the tattered and near-ruined clothing, you couldn't even tell he'd dragged it in pieces from a skip – besides the obvious absence of its head.

Besides the mechanisms inside, the only thing about the retro toy that puzzled him was the large black object, which looked like a connector, sticking out of its back; but a few days dedicated to its removal proved fruitful. He sat at his desk at the back of his living room, which was strewn with doll-parts, fabric, and various other tools of his trade, working tirelessly day and night. All he had left was to repair the facial mechanisms, which were still frozen in the horrid half-grin, and connect the head with the body. He hadn't even touched the head since he brought it home, and groaned in near-defeat when he realised that the staples and stitches weren't real.

"Aw, fuck…" he hissed to himself. Originally he'd been hoping to simply remove the sutures and tacks, but with this setback he'd have to think of something more drastic, like replacing the entire head. He sighed, irritated, set the head down on the oak worktop and leant back in his chair, listening to the end of some pop song crackling through the radio on the windowsill. Francis glanced around at the sheer state of the room; equipment, slivers and sheets of fabric and paper, boxes of various forgotten things and other random bits of crap littered the room. There was just enough room for a narrow pathway from the desk to the door. Cleaning wasn't something he indulged in; in fact his entire apartment was pretty much the same as his office-come-workshop.

The song ended, and the afternoon news began.

"Access Hollywood has just revealed that the studio producing the very controversial movie based on the killing spree of Charles Lee Ray and his girlfriend Tiffany have called off the search for the missing dolls." Francis blinked, sat up, and glanced at the doll, which lay before him. Had he found the missing Chucky doll? If so, who had Tiffany? He looked at the black connector, picked it up and inspected the thing, wondering if there was a reward for the return of the doll. If there were it would have had to be a substantial amount before he would have parted with a Good Guy.

He tossed the connector; glad to be rid of it. It was a terribly ugly thing to be on the back of the doll, which looked like it had never had anything attached to it.

Thinking of the toy's near-perfect state his mind came back to the matter of replacing the head; there was no way he could use what he had now, it wouldn't look right. He had to find another head, but where? And how much would it cost him? He switched off the radio and hurried to his living room, there had to be someone on the Internet with spare doll-parts.

A whole year of non-stop searching on auction and hobby sites went by, and Francis came up with nothing. There was absolutely no one anywhere in the world with a Good Guy head that he could use. He saw some pretty damn awful imitations, which were more or less modified heads of pre-existing dolls. The worst one was a modified version of a doll that could change its expression. Not only was it creepy it just looked terrible and he wondered how any self-respecting Good Guy fan could make their own and be happy with it, especially if it looked like that.

Then he was struck with an idea, one that made him feel incredibly stupid. He couldn't believe that it hadn't come to him before, that he hadn't thought of looking in the only factory for miles around that made the Good Guy. Providing, of course, it was still there.

The factory was abandoned after the murders that surrounded and ultimately demonised the Good Guy doll franchise; nobody wanted to go near it, not even to demolish it. It became somewhat of an urban legend, a tourist attraction. Yet it remained a black spot on the face of the city, an embarrassment that nobody wanted to deal with. Unbeknownst to Francis it had been burned down by arsonists, who were then later discovered to be the family and friends of the victims of the maniacal doll known simply as Chucky. Francis donned his old brown duster jacket and left his home in search of the old factory, hoping that even if it had been demolished, that there was still at least two halves of a head remaining. He could work from that.

The sky had turned a sickly orange-purple from the mixture of the setting sun and pollution caused by excessive vehicle and factory emissions. It was getting late and Francis had only just reached the area where the Good Guy factory once stood, the charred rubble was still there, piled up against the odd remaining wall or twisted support beam. He meandered through the rubble and other bits of the old factory that had survived all these years; he kicked small bits of rubble and moved large pieces of wood and metal, searching for the elusive head he'd been longing for. But all he found were dead rats, melted plastic and burned fabric; no head at all or anything, for that matter, that even remotely resembled a Good Guy doll. After nearly an hour of looking, Francis had found nothing.

"I might as well give up," he sighed, "there aren't any dolls here." It had gotten a lot darker by now, bad things happened to people in these parts when it got dark. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and decided he'd get the bus home; it would be a lot quicker than walking. He walked across the wasteland that was once a factory over to the sidewalk and from there walked down towards the nearest bus stop, again he was deep in thought and again, like the dumpster, he almost didn't notice the road turning off and lowering, going underneath the factory, like a multi-storey car park. After a nanosecond of thinking about it, Francis decided it'd be worth his while to investigate; he could always catch the next bus.

The road disappeared into the damp darkness of the factory's underbelly. Francis swallowed hard, the many horror-stories surrounding the building being played over and over by his perpetually overactive imagination. He wished that, at that particular moment, he wasn't so desperate for a Good Guy doll—though he knew he would do anything for one, he was still apprehensive about plunging into that dank recess which, behind the veil of thick blankness, seemed to house…things, horrible things; _dead things_. Things of voodoo and unknown sins yet to allow themselves be discovered.

He braved the darkness, wishing he'd brought a torch, tripped over a piece of rubble and automatically flung his hands out to stop himself. He opened his eyes and found himself not as horizontal as he imagined. Trying to focus on his hands, and ignoring the tittering of the things in the shadows, he found that he was leaning on a metal shutter, which felt slightly damp. He pushed himself away from the shutter and sighed deeply. Then a car went by behind him, its headlights illuminating the passage, chasing away the shadows and its dwellers, and revealing the shutter along with the rusted padlock that held it to the ground.

In an instant he had picked up the rock he tripped over, and with it had broken off the padlock.

Metal rattled and groaned as he hefted the shutter up just enough to get through. He placed the rock underneath the shutter and quickly ducked under, letting it slam down, leaving a six-inch gap between it and the floor. Another car rolled past and the glow from its headlights slipped in under the shutter, casting depraved and twisted shadows around the room. The dead things laughed as the light disappeared, sucking the shadows back outside.

During that brief time of illumination he saw that the underground warehouse had been untouched by the fire that had ravaged the factory above and, moreover, it was stacked floor to ceiling—around eight feet—with boxes, all stamped with the infamous Good Guy logo. Francis grinned; this was his heaven. There _had_ to be a head around here somewhere.

Intermittent though it was, the light offered by the occasional passing car was enough to allow a quick search of the nearest boxes—he daren't go further into the black void, lest his fears of the shadow-dwellers be true—and most of them fell apart in his hands, victims of damp and lice, littering the floor with mouldy arms and legs; but one box was almost completely free of any kind of blight, and it felt heavy.

The warehouse flooded with the satisfying tearing of cardboard, rustling of Styrofoam and Francis' gleeful chuckle as he pulled from the box a near-perfect Good Guy head, complete with facial mechanism.

With a childish grin he tucked his prize under his jacket and exited the warehouse, removing the rock and letting the shutter slam down to the ground. As he got to the top of the ramp a bus rolled past; Francis was quick to flag it down, thankful that he wouldn't need to walk home that night.

When he finally did get home he went straight to his workshop and set to work on wiring up the head's mechanism to the battery pack he installed himself. It took many hours of careful calculation and deliberation but was ultimately successful in installing every mechanism, wire and microchip. The head was fixed on, and before him sat a doll that could very well have come fresh from the box twenty years ago. It was even its original size! Lord knows he despised how they gradually made the dolls smaller and smaller over the years until the franchise frittered away to nothing.

He snapped the battery cover back in place and pulled the dungarees back over before turning the doll around and sitting it on the desk.

"Voice activated…right…" he muttered, before speaking aloud "hi, what's your name?"

No response. The doll stared listlessly at him with huge blue eyes, a fixed, soulless smile on its face. He'd connected everything up correctly, and he knew it all worked because it was all brand new electronics, save for the mechanism in the head; but what if that was it? What if the mechanism in the head wasn't working? It had been cleaned out; nothing had rusted and any wiring that looked worn was replaced, so it should be okay.

Francis groaned loudly and slapped the desk in frustration, causing the doll's head to snap to look at him with such ferocity the toy itself had shifted. The restorer froze and stared at it, holding his breath. It felt like it took forever for its face to move, the mechanisms in the head buzzing softly.

"Hi, I'm Freddy, and I'm your friend to the end. Hidey-ho! Ha-ha-ha!"

Its fuzzy childlike voice was the greatest sound he could have heard. Barely had the doll turned its head back to its usual position before he scooped it up in his arms, laughing like he had when, at the age of eight, he opened the largest box under the tree and yanked out his first Good Guy doll. It was then that his love for the franchise was born and would still have the toy if it weren't for a gas explosion caused, coincidentally, by an arsonist who was linked to Eddie Caputo, Charles Lee Ray's former partner. His house wasn't the intended target but the explosion caused fires that ravaged nearly half the street. His parents never could afford to buy him another.

Giddy with joy, Francis took his newest treasure into the living room, where he'd already made a space for him in a display cabinet. He placed it between a mint condition pair of Good Guy trainers and a cold-cast porcelain statue of the Good Guy hot-air balloon. The thick glass door was gently closed and locked, not even a speck of dust could get in that cabinet now, and that's where Freddy sat, for four long years, with Francis giving him a monthly check-up. The Chucky and Tiffany movie was finally released, under the title of 'Chucky Goes Psycho', much to the dissatisfaction of many.

Though most people either liked the movie or didn't care enough to have an opinion, the minority who absolutely abhorred it almost managed to get it banned completely, which is what delayed it so much. It wasn't a particularly outstanding film, didn't win any Oscars—not even a Golden Globe—and it wasn't so bad it deserved a Razzie, so in the awards world it went by unnoticed. But the news world lapped at its waters for some time, fuelling the fire on both sides of the fence, the issue being if it was morally acceptable to glamorise killers in such a way so soon after the last wave of murders? The ultimate answer was no, it wasn't, mainly due to the identities of the victims being changed although the circumstances remained the same.

A noticeable absence within the protesters was the Barclay family. Andy had disappeared after the incident at military school and Karen, his mother, was still receiving psychiatric treatment. Probably the biggest name amongst them was former detective Mike Norris, the man who killed the human form of Charles Lee Ray, and who spearheaded the campaign against the studio. In the end they failed to convince the Motion Picture Association of America that this film should be pulled, and it was released with huge fanfare and a massive advertising campaign that took advantage of the controversy generated by it.

Documentaries quickly followed the film in hordes. Most of them centred on the Ray's psychology, interviewing a small group of victims who were willing to talk about their experiences with the maniacal dolls—this time the absence came in the form of Norris, who refused to speak to anyone about it. Some of the programmes took it upon themselves to try and discover the voodoo secrets behind the murders. The majority of people laughed off the idea of voodoo, and Francis was no different.

A massive job had recently come Francis' way: restoring half of a collection of porcelain dolls. The owner was willing to pay a lot of money, enough to live on for a year. He did a good job, was paid, and immediately blew a chunk of it on equipment, a holiday and a few heavy nights out with friends.

A fascination with all things Chucky had started to develop, and he found himself recording all the documentaries and reading up about the murders. The way he saw it was that Charles Lee Ray was as much a part of the Good Guy name as the doll itself, and that any Good Guy collector ought to be educated about the killer.

It was one of these documentaries, one dedicated to Ray, he was watching when he was giving Freddy its monthly check-up. It was a new one, one that claimed to actually have discovered the voodoo spell used to transfer souls. Apparently it came from a very obscure branch of the religion, one that can only be found if you know the right people, and you can only know the right people if you were the sort to partake in ritualistic murder and other various crimes against man. This show claimed to have footage of one of these soul-transferring rituals, which intrigued Francis more than any of the other shows based on the subject of voodoo.

The toy was on its stomach, the battery pack open, which was now always kept free of batteries, and Francis was using a small brush to dust the tiniest corners within the body. When the ritual had begun he put the doll down on the coffee table, where it perched precariously amongst the various tools and papers littering the unit, and stared at the television. It was the first time the ritual had been seen and heard by outsiders. It was incredibly exciting, for him at least, and he watched with quiet fervour as the priest, a tall and imposing man, began the chant with "ade due Damballa; give me the power, I beg of you! Leveau mercier du bois chaloitte. Secoise entienne mais pois de morte." The man roared the words and, as he reached the crescendo of his chant, stood fast when everyone else cowered at the monstrous crash of thunder and blaze of lightning. He continued, "Morteisma lieu de vocuier de mieu vochette. Endenlieu pour du boisette Damballa!" The thunder got louder, the lightning brighter. "Endenlieu pour du boisette Damballa!"

The windows rattled violently under the bass of the thunder, and Francis jumped in fright. He hadn't noticed the storm building up outside, which was a coincidence bordering on creepy. Closing the curtains he took one last look outside of the rain hammering against the glass, of the lightning racing across the sky, and he sat back down, picking up Freddy. The show had gone to a break, and an advert for the Chucky Goes Psycho DVD and Blu-Ray was on, flouting the 'based on a true story' tagline. Francis snapped the battery cover shut, and watched it, scoffing when it ended.

"Based on a true story my ass, what a crock of shit." As he spoke he did up the dungarees, and yelped when Freddy's head spun a full one-eighty and stared at him with a mix of insane glee and murderous rage, holding in its hand a sculpting knife. It slashed at his arm, causing Francis to let go with that hand. Freddy grabbed onto his other arm and swung around it, landing on the man's chest. Slowly, the mechanisms in its neck creaking and whirring, the doll's head rotated back to its original position and grinned the most horrible grin Francis had ever seen, its eyes now slick and glistening with life.

"A li'l tip for ya, bub: _always _believe what you see in the movies."

And with a terrible, shrieking cackle it thrust the knife into his throat.

(A/N: Please review, any constructive criticism is welcome.)


	2. Birthday Surprise

(A/N: There's a fair bit of bad language in this chapter, just so you know. Enjoy!)

Chucky yanked the knife out of Francis' throat, bringing his own laugh to an abrupt halt. There was little blood, and the hole whistled as the man breathed. The doll giggled sadistically and leapt back onto the table, kicking off papers and books. A roll of scotch tape caught his glinting eye.

Francis spluttered and fought to get to his feet. He stumbled around the back of the couch and headed for the door, flecks of blood and spit staining his lips, his mind racing madly. What was going on? If it was a dream it was horrifyingly real, and if it _was _real…well, that wasn't possible, was it? A doll can't come to life; it's just the poorly written, badly conceived plot to a mediocre horror movie. Not real. It's only a movie. It's only a movie. It's only a movie…

He placed his hand on the back of the settee to pull himself along, disappointed he hadn't got as far as he'd hoped, when the fictitious doll slammed into the side of his head. Skull collided with doorframe and Francis slumped to the floor in a heavy daze. He felt tiny hands grab his shoulder and pull him onto his back, something climb on top of him, stand on his chest and stare down at him. Somehow he knew that whoever, or whatever, it was, was grinning.

Tiffany, a flute glass of red wine in her hand, sat in her dining room and drummed her fingernails against the mahogany table. She'd been planning the twins' party for weeks, and now it was finally the day and _still _half the stuff had yet to arrive. Next time she was going to go to someone else and damn the expense. Not that these people were cheap, mind, but she had her regular work with Family Guy, the paycheque from which was getting bigger with every season, so it wasn't like she couldn't afford it. She drained the glass and set it down, leaning back in her chair, and cursed the fact she had to wait, which was when her mind began to wander and as much as she hated it, as much as she _loathed _it, her mind regularly wandered to the most influential, charismatic, sexy and downright sickening man she'd ever known.

Chucky; The Lakeshore Strangler; Charles Lee-fucking-Ray. She hated him. Her skin crawled and her guts writhed whenever she thought of him, which was far too often, but he never failed to turn her on. Even now, years on, he still had some sort of hold on her sexually. One thing was certain though: she never, ever regretted leaving him. If she hadn't then none of what they had now would be possible. There was little doubt that they'd all be on the run right now, Chucky's murderous tendencies being what they were. She couldn't imagine him being a good father anyway, even without the uncontrollable killing.

A shriek, one that could only be recognised as a cry of despair, rattled the windows, causing Tiffany to jump to her feet. She ran out to the back yard, where the party was going to be, and groaned when she saw her assistant—more of a babysitter than anything—backed up against the garden shed with Glenda less than two feet away from her, staring with a less-than-child-like malice. In her hand Tiff saw her daughter carried a bunch of matches, and in the other their box.

"Glenda!" She scolded. "Stop that!"

The little girl, as if coming out of a hypnotic trance, turned her head, saw her mother, and moved away. The assistant slid past and hurried, almost ran, into the house, muttering something about not being able to cope.

When Francis came to he was horrified to find that he couldn't move. His mouth was taped shut and his arms taped to his sides, and his legs to the floor, with what seemed to be several rolls of the stuff. Looking about he saw no one, which worried him, but not as much as the vision of a blue and red horror that came into his vision soon after. Chucky sat on his chest and sighed.

"Do you even have a mirror in this shithole?" he spat, "Jesus. I've noticed that all the crap's gone from my face, which I guess I should be grateful for. I can't have looked this good for _two decades_ and because you're too fucking cheap to get a goddamn mirror I can't even appreciate it!" Chucky glared as Francis, through tears and muffled sobs, tried so say something. He ripped off half of the tape covering his mouth and growled, "what?"

"B-bathroom…" Francis rasped.

"I've been in the bathroom!"

"In th-the cah…cabinet…"

Chucky paused, thinking, and slapped the tape back on Francis' face. "Be right back."

It wasn't long before he returned, carrying the cabinet door with him. Francis watched as he sat back on his chest and admired himself.

"Gotta say, you did a pretty solid job. I really _haven't_ looked this good in twenty years. So thanks for bringing me back and making sure I've got a decent body to come back to," his expression darkened at the thought of his intended target, "'cause I got a bitch to put down." With that, Chucky raised the door above his head and slammed it, mirror side down, into Francis' face. The glass shattered, cutting his forehead and cheek. The toy laughed and tossed away the door. He sneered down at his victim, who stared back with tears in his deer-in-the-headlights expression. "I've really missed this…" He hissed, leaning down and clasping the man's nose.

Francis panicked, his breathing grew heavier and more erratic and the whistling of his throat did little to improve the situation. Chucky grinned once again and slowly moved his tiny hand to his victim's throat. He stared into his eyes and pushed his finger into the hole he'd made. Francis tried to cry out, struggling violently against the tape, but he was too dazed and there was too much tape to allow him any leverage. His heart raced and his body convulsed, trying to force himself away from this doll, this thing he'd made with his own hands and kept in a cabinet for years. Blood rushed to his head, his heart beat faster; if he didn't suffocate to death first then he'd surely have a heart attack. It seemed to take an age but finally Francis' body began to relax, his eyes rolled back, and the last thing he ever saw was the evil glint of maniacal satisfaction in the eyes of a grinning Charles Lee Ray.

He hopped off his victim with a satisfied sigh and sauntered to the middle of the living room, stretching his new body. He rotated his shoulders and groaned when he heard a _pop_, felt his right arm snake down his sleeve and heard it drop to the floor.

"Shit," he growled, watching the arm writhe around. An idea struck him and he grabbed the appendage.

He was a good student, back when he was human. Not as a kid, no way – math and science were things he couldn't have cared less about even if he tried. But voodoo, now _that _was an interesting subject. He searched for years for a teacher that would show him the finer, darker side of the religion; the side nobody sees or hears about. John was more than willing to teach him, though there was a lot of deception on Chucky's part, having promised John that he'd use what he learned for good causes. And he learned more than just the soul transference invocation of Damballa. No, he learned a _lot _more, but he could only do so much without the Heart of Damballa, an amulet which amplifies the holder's powers a hundredfold. He could only do basic voodoo, and only because he put so much practice into it could he do the soul transference spell but it was limited to his own soul and anyone else sharing blood with him. John was of the opinion that with the Heart a person could manipulate the souls of those not connected to him by blood.

There was something else, too. A spell similar to soul transference, but this one _gives_ life, or at least preserves it.

Chucky placed the wriggling arm on the coffee table and began the chant. The storm, which had started to fade, roared once again as he sealed off the life that flowed within the limb. Now the arm would stay alive, autonomous and violent, an extension of himself. It stood up on its fingers and leapt onto Chucky's shoulder. He knew what he was going to do, but he had to find out Tiff's new address.

It took a while for him to find Francis' laptop, after he'd popped in a new arm, but he did find it and, once he'd turned it on, was instantly confused by its layout.

"Where the fuck's the internet?" He spat to himself. Eventually he found it, and once he managed to figure out the inner workings of Google typed in 'Jennifer Tilly' and 'address'. It took him to a website that gave him the address of her agent. It was good enough; it had to be, he didn't have time to look for her real address. He went back to the body, took the wallet and mobile phone that was in his victim's pockets, and after finding a courier in the phonebook began dialling. It rang twice before a woman answered.

"Yeah hi, I need a package delivered today." He gave her the addresses. "Yeah I—I know it's far. Listen," he snapped, cutting off the woman's rambling, "I'll pay you five times what you normally charge, just send your fastest driver okay?" He gave her Francis' credit card number and was assured someone would be around soon.

Within half an hour the courier arrived. He found the front door ajar and, on the couch, a note attached to a yellow and blue box which instructed him on which address he was to take it and that if he was quick there would be a bonus waiting for him at the other end. It was across the other side of the city but he drove a motorcycle, so traffic wasn't a massive problem. It took just over an hour and a half, which was quick in his books. The receptionist signed for the package, and shrugged off questions about a bonus.

It took minutes for the package to make its way through the arteries of the building to Jennifer Tilly's agent who, to make sure it was appropriate, opened the box.

"Ugh," he sighed, "I fucking _hate _these dolls." This was not the first time he'd opened a box to reveal a Good Guy, people had been sending them by the truckloads since Chucky Goes Psycho was released; most of the packages contained letters begging Jennifer to sign the doll and return it. This one didn't, it was just a doll and an arm. He set the box on his desk and sat in his plush leather office chair, unnerved by Chucky's blank stare; he _really _hated those dolls. He was soon to discover he hated the for good reason as it, quicker than a doll should be able to, leapt at him, pulled a knife from somewhere and plunged it repeatedly into his chest.

It wasn't long before Chucky found Tiffany's, or Jennifer's, address; called a different courier and set up another delivery.

Children ran screaming around Tiff's back garden, throwing food, roughhousing, chasing each other—generally being kids, which was annoying to her. She was happy that Glen had made so many friends at school, but asking him to act like a five year old was a lot considering he was at least eleven by now, but he seemed happy to comply, as though he'd forgotten his past life as a living doll.

But he hadn't forgotten. In fact he thought about it every day whenever he looked at his sister. He could see the Chucky in her, and was sure their mother could too. Thankfully she didn't show a murderous streak, despite having already killed someone; but that was five years ago. Instead she'd taken to pyromania, setting fire to almost anything she found interest in. The principal's office fascinated her greatly, a fascination that led to a large and severe blaze that hospitalised a cleaner and cost the school a substantial amount of money in repairs. There was no evidence to link Glenda to it, she was eerily good at that, but Glen had been with her in a failed attempt to stop the crime. He told Tiffany, and she pulled Glenda from the school, citing psychological trauma from the fire. The fact the girl was a mute helped that case and no questions were asked, nor were any suspicions raised.

Despite this trait of her daughter's, and her son's innate diffidence, Tiffany was proud of them both; they were her babies, despite their quirks, despite the fact they used to be one person. She did, though, keep a cautious eye on Glenda, since she was born of Glen's latent homicidal tendencies.

A series of knocks on the door brought her out of her thoughts. She blinked and the knocks came again.

With her former doll body in her arms she crossed the living room, which was a spacious affair, kicked back into the closet the hand that kept the door open and shut it tightly. The courier was halfway through a third set of knocks when she answered.

Glen watched his sister, sat on her haunches and setting light to long, singular blades of grass. He loved her dearly, but she terrified him beyond measure. Much more than Chucky ever did. He heard the back door being opened and turned to see his mother holding a box.

"Here, honey," she said, "it doesn't say who it's from."

Glen took the box and carried it to a bench. It had become a habit for him to be the one to open presents, his own and those of his sister, since Glenda seemed to take no interest in the act. Smiling, he tore at the paper and pulled the lid off. So far it had been a good birthday; his friends were there and they were having fun, the sun was shining, he'd gotten some pretty cool toys, Glenda hadn't seriously harmed anyone, and there still hadn't been any sign of his father.

Until now.

Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't he just leave them alone? No, why did he even have to come back at all? _How _did he come back? As far as Glen knew he would have needed the Heart of Damballa, and his mother had hidden that somewhere. He stared down at the arm. Maybe he's not back, maybe someone found it and sent it as a joke. That's it, he thought, that _has _to be it.

Then it twitched. Memories from five years ago began to flood back, movement swept around him and all Glen could do was stand there as, racked with fear, he felt something warm trickle down his leg. He turned to his mother, who was no longer there, and as soon he turned back the arm lunged.

As Glen took the box off somewhere to open it Tiffany heard an expensive-sounding crash. She ran inside and froze as, surrounded by kids, her assistant's bludgeoned corpse lay sprawled on the floor, nearby was what remained of a vase worth more than the dead woman's yearly salary. Someone had opened the door, for reasons she could not imagine—curiosity, probably.

Two girls stood crying in each other's arms, others stared, and one boy, whose curiosity seemed unhealthy for a kid as young as he, was kneeling next to the body, prodding it with his finger.

"It's not real…" He sighed, almost disappointed.

"Get away from there!" Tiffany cried, making the kids jump in fright. She rushed over, stuffed the body back in the closet along with the doll and pushed the door until she heard it click. "Who opened the door?"

"W-was it real…?" One of the girls asked, sniffing.

"No, honey," Tiff lied, "of course it wasn't. Just an old Halloween joke, that's all."

The boy folded his arms and pouted, "then why did you yell at us?"

"Because…because it's expensive, that's why."

"_You_ weren't being careful…"

She was about to answer when she heard a muffled scream come from the garden. As she turned Glenda ran in and hid behind her legs.

"Mom!" It was Glen. He ran inside, clutching something—whatever it was he kept it at arm's length—and stopped in front of Tiffany.

She stared at the writhing plastic arm that her son held up to her. With her body trembling, and her breath quickening, she managed to rasp: "e-everyone…out. _Now_. The-the party's o-over."


	3. Reunion

(A/N: Sorry for the long update, have had many things to do recently. Hope you enjoy!)

Tiffany's mind whirled. Her thoughts, obscure and muddy, flew around her head like so much flotsam. He was back. _Chucky was back. _But, she kept asking herself, how? There was no one who could bring him back, and those that could did not want him.

She shook her head and blinked hard. It didn't matter. He was alive again, and Glen was holding what she could only assume was his arm. The plastic appendage had now started to quiet down and save for a slight twitch was more or less inanimate once again. Quickly, and without a word, she began ushering the kids outside through the front door, much to their dismay.

Glen followed behind Glenda, who held onto the hem of Tiffany's top, clutching the arm to his chest. "What do you want us to do, mom?"

"Outside. With the rest."

"But mom! We can-"

"No you _can't_! Don't even start!" She snapped. "You of all people should know how dangerous he is!"

Standing defiant, Glen insisted, "but I killed him last time!"

Tiff, having pushed the last child over the threshold, spun to face her son. "Last time, you were a doll! The voodoo keeping you inside it made you stronger; how do you think _he's _so powerful?" She sighed and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Listen, you're twenty-one years old…but only up here," she tapped his temple. "You've got the body of a five-year-old, Glen. The best you and Glenda can do is run."

After much pause, and a lot of frowning, Glen nodded and led his ever-quiet twin outside. "Fine."

Tiff shut and locked the door. Chucky was most likely already in the house, but she didn't want him getting out. Oh no, that bastard was hers. She didn't want to run, it was a trait she hated in people—women especially. That dumb bitch Laurie Strode ran for most of her life, and where did that get her? Tiffany wasn't going to be like that, even if she died. At least she wouldn't be remembered as some pussy that screamed and ran up the nearest flight of stairs at the first sign of danger.

Glen sat on the doorstep and tucked his knees up to his chest. He watched his party guests swarm over the street and throw around a ball someone had found. He didn't know most of them, being reluctant to make friends at all. He somewhat enjoyed being five, having never had a childhood, but in some respects it was…well…boring, especially the friend-making part. He didn't mind being around them, but he hated having to make pretences with friendships and all that crap. He watched Glenda, who seemed very much engrossed in being five years old and hadn't spoken once since becoming human, as she sat on her haunches on the grass and stared down at a dandelion swaying softly in the slight breeze. Glen loved his sister but boy did she freak him out sometimes. It was like she'd forgotten everything about being a doll, even in spite of her actually having killed someone. But not only that, her newfound pyromania had come out of nothing. One day she just set fire to a bench in the school playground, and got off pretty easily on all accounts, and ever since found muted solace in the ritualistic burning of things. Thankfully she hadn't gone on to torturing and killing small animals yet, but Glen was always on the lookout for such behaviour.

The dandelion was burning now, the flame licking the breeze. It quickly consumed the plant and as the stem blackened and curled Glenda looked up at Glen, her mass of long frizzy red hair, which reached the small of her back, falling about her shoulders. She looked back down at the dandelion, which was now completely black, and would have smiled had she felt she had the emotional capacity to do so.

"What are we gonna do, Glenda?"

She looked at him again.

Sighing and leaning her forehead against the door Tiffany slid the deadbolt in place. She'd cut herself off from her kids, something she'd hoped she would never have to do. She wondered if they'd be okay without her. Stop it, she scolded herself, they have to be okay. She couldn't worry about anything but Chucky right now. Couldn't get upset, couldn't lose focus.

A loud crash like that of a vase hitting the floor upstairs preceded Chucky's trademark cackle and shattered her train of thought.

Tiffany turned and quickly eyed the stairs. He wasn't there—yet. She knew what he'd do, he was as predictable as a cheap horror movie; he'd lie in wait, probably in a closet or something, and wait until she turned her back before leaping out with a kitchen knife. She knew _his _game plan, but he didn't know hers.

She quickly made her way over to the closet that concealed her former assistant's corpse, pushed her old body into the back and soon found a wooden baseball bat. A former boyfriend left it with them before he'd left or gone missing—depending on who you asked.

Tiff knew exactly where he was: three and a half feet underneath her new garden patio with a few sacks of lime. He shouldn't have raised his hand to Glenda. The bat still had some slivers of teeth in it.

Outside Glen was still sitting on the doorstep, watching Glenda as she systematically torched every dandelion in the garden, which wasn't a great many but she seemed pretty OCD about getting them all. He went over to the first dandelion, the ashes of which now mostly blown away, and sat next to it. He hoped that Tiffany would be okay. He didn't want to live in a foster home and he knew Glenda didn't either; that _would _be hell, and not just for the families adopting them. He looked up and just caught his sister's dress disappearing down the side of the house.

Glenda kept her arms rigid at her sides while she walked, which she always did with intent, and emerged through a tall iron gate into the back garden, which was littered with party stuff. Wrapping paper blew about, balloons bobbed in the air and on the picnic table she spotted, and promptly stuffed in her mouth, leftover cake and other sweet things.

A lot had changed in recent years; she could remember being in the same body as Glen, but it was all really murky and blurred and she couldn't remember a whole lot of specifics. But she did remember Chucky, that she felt somewhat indifferent about him whereas Glen had both loathed and feared the man. She was a _little _curious about her father, having never known him properly. Their mother never spoke of him, and if Glen was to be believed then he was a horrible, terrifying creature with no purpose in life other than the destruction of others. From the stories he told Chucky seemed like a machine, a robot programmed to kill whenever the opportunity arose. Surely there must be more to him than that, there must be a _reason _for the killing.

The back door slid open and Tiffany screamed, "Glenda!"

The girl froze and turned to her mother.

"Get back out front! And lock the gate!"

Glenda gave a mental sigh and dragged her feet back the way she came.

Tiffany waited for the scraping of the closing gate before locking the door. She too sighed and closed the kitchen window. There was still no sign of Chucky, which worried her. He usually stayed out of sight in this manner, but he always made his presence known every few minutes with a loud knock, cackle or footsteps. He never stayed this quiet for this long.

Then it dawned on her. What if she wasn't the target?

Glen moved back to the doorstep, favouring it like some throne, and rubbed his face. Why'd he have to be in such a young body? Why couldn't the voodoo still affect their growth? Tiff had explained to them that the accelerated growth caused by the residual voodoo only affected them within the womb. Once they were born the magic wore off so they began to grow as any normal human would and though they still had full consciousness they couldn't talk until their vocal chords and brains had fully developed. To put it simply their bodies literally had to grow into their minds the way a kid would have to grow into a sweater that was several sizes too big.

There was a noise at his right. Glen jumped and held his breath, releasing it when he saw Glenda emerge, kicking an empty Coke can. She looked over at him, then back down at the can before kicking it again. It was the only sound in the street aside from the mutterings of the party guests, who were now sitting on the pavement in groups. There was another clang, louder this time, which caused Glen to look at his sister, who was now sitting on the grass with the can several feet away from her. He turned to look at the drainpipe behind him when the noise rang out again. His eyes trailed up the metal and widened when he saw a three-foot figure clad in dungarees clinging to it. Under a shock of red hair Chucky's gleaming eyes leered down at his prey.

In a second, and with a roar, Chucky was on top of Glen.

"I told ya I was proud of ya, boy!" Roared the doll, his hands around Glen's throat. "You and I, we coulda been fucking _great_!" The boy rasped and choked and stumbled around, eventually tripping backwards over a stray bit of hosepipe. Chucky let go with one hand and reached into his dungarees, pulling out a penknife. He flicked the blade out and grinned at his son. "But you had to get all sentimental. Pfft, I guess Glenda was the only one who inherited the family business." He looked over at her, and she stared at him.

What did he mean by that?

Chucky raised the knife over his head and lunged.

As soon as he did something struck him in the side of his face, sending him reeling into a flowerbed. Glen jumped to his feet, grabbed his father's penknife and stood at his mother's side. Chucky sat up and looked at her.

"Can't we just talk this out?"

"Heard it all before, Ray." She took another swing, as though she wielded a golf club, and caught Chucky under the chin and put him into a bush before gathering her two kids and locking themselves back in the house.

Glen rubbed his throat, which was already red, and glared at his sister. "Thanks for helping out."

Glenda lowered her eyes in response.

"What do we do, mom?"

Tiffany sighed and shook her head. "I don't know, Glen. Just be careful with that knife."

He looked down at the weapon. Chucky had been sharpening it. It was chipped and nightmarishly uneven, but it was lethal.

Chucky pulled himself from the bush, rubbing both his head and his chin. That could've seriously hurt if he'd started to turn human. He had to think, and quick; they'd expect him to recuperate, take his time—a quick attack would be unexpected. He had minutes before they began forming a plan, probably less.

It had taken Glen's question to make Tiffany realise that she really didn't know what to do. Game plan? She had nothing. It was stupid, but she'd never factored Chucky's revival into her plans. Why would she? She was the only one who could bring him back—voodoo for dummies was now out of print—and it must have been pure chance that anyone found his body to begin with. How _did _it happen? Who the _fuck _would bring him back? Who even believed it anymore?

Not only did she have no contingency plan, she must have lived in one of the only houses in L.A without a gun. She couldn't even think of why she didn't have one other than it might have been an oversight brought on by her decision to live a murder-free life that, admittedly, was less than murder-free on some occasions. Maybe she'd get one tomorrow. A Glock, perhaps.

Glenda sat on the couch, her hands on her lap. It looked to the others like all this wasn't bothering her at all, but it was. Her face was blank but her mind was aflame with emotions that were until then a distant memory, things she only ever thought about feeling. What he said…about her inheriting the family business, what did he mean by that? Was she good at killing? _Had _she killed before? She couldn't remember. The vision of Chucky looming over her brother with that crooked knife, powerful and dominant, brought forward new feelings of horror, dread and something…something that made her feel worse than anything else. She wanted to vomit, she wanted to cry and scream her apologies, but didn't. She kept her statuesque expression, knowing that Chucky wanted her dead as much as her mother and brother, so getting worked up wasn't going to help anything.

Then, breaking the silence that had drifted down on them, a familiar cackle came from upstairs.

"Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!"


End file.
